I know that, to some, squirrels inspire lots of unfounded rage. Like this cop, who maced a baby squirrel while onlooking middle school girls screamed.
If you’re a dog, squirrels inspire the instinct of their wolf ancestors – hunt, kill, eat.
If you’re down south, squirrels might inspire a great stew recipe.
If you’re my car, squirrels inspire cruelly crushing their bodies with your tires of death.
If you’re me, killing a cute little hopping squirrel with your car will temporarily devastate you. I mean, the little dude crunched.
I drove on and prayed that by the time I got to work, there would be no furry bits on my tires.
I’m not a huge animal lover. The only pets I’ve ever really owned were some goldfish, including one we lovingly named ‘Flush.’ I’m allergic to cats, and the only way I could ever own a dog is if it lived outside. I don’t like that dogs smell. Yes, I am a princess sometimes.
But I love watching squirrels. I never really saw any growing up in California, but now there are bunches of them frolicking across (and…inside, in some cases) the roof of my apartment. I like how they scurry, I like the little baby ones, I like not crushing their little bodies with my terrible death vehicle.
My coworkers were no help when I told them of my great sorrow.
“Allison, you know it’s probably all over your tires.”
“I ran over a bunny once. It was still twitching, so I backed up.”
“Once, there were 11 squirrels in my attic. I shot them all with a BB gun. They were having a squirrel orgy – I couldn’t handle the ruckus.”
I really do wonder sometimes about these people I spend 40 hours a week with. But then again, I’m the one who murders fluffy, cute baby rodents.